Friday, September 22, 2006

Scena Domestica

One hates to make premature judgements, and so I've waited until now to give you an update on the state of household since Dolores returned from her run with the biker gang.

We've already had a tussle over the ban on cigarettes. She attempted to cover the scent of half a pack of Virginia Slims by burning a whole box of my Japanese temple incense. I came home to find the apartment smelling like a klatsch of chain-smoking Buddhist nuns. Words were exchanged.

All missing and damaged books have been replaced, although the new edition of Kiss of the Whip (revised and expanded) already seems to have been nibbled on. I may have to invest in a small, locking case for certain types of literature.

Most surprising: her capable and even enthusiastic wrangling of the sock yarn colony. The fifty unruly skeins and balls seem to have brought out her long-dormant motherly instincts. The rabble has become quite docile, following her in two straight lines for daily jaunts to Lincoln Park and on field trips to the Adler Planetarium and the Field Museum.

At night, she corrals them neatly before retiring to her cushion with a copy–certainly not mine–of How to Talk to Yarn So Yarn Will Listen and Listen So Yarn Will Talk.

And imagine my surprise when I returned home to find the following note taped to my desk:

The boys and I would be so pleased if you would join us in the living room at eight o'clock for a little surprise. Jacket and tie requested.

Suitably attired, I sat down on the sofa promptly at eight and Dolores entered, followed as usual by her crocodile of sock yarns. They arranged themselves neatly in two rows on the rose in the middle of the carpet, and then Dolores cleared her throat and blew an A on her harmonica.

"Laaaaaaaaaaaa," sang the balls of sock yarn.

There followed a short concert of traditional American favorites, including "Wait 'Til the Sun Shines, Nellie," "Home on the Range," and "Buffalo Gals, Won't You Come Out Tonight." In four part harmony. With choreography.

I applauded vigorously and was rewarded with "Where the Streets Have No Name" (D. Van Hoofen, harmonica soloist) as an encore.

It was all so touching I was dabbing at tears as the company took its final bow and the yarn rolled into the kitchen for light refreshments.

"Nu?" said Dolores. "Did you enjoy?"

"I'm overwhelmed," I said. "I thought I was harboring Belle Watling and here you turn out to be Maria Von Trapp."

"What a nice, and incredibly gay, thing to say."

"Well, I mean every sweet, homosexual word of it."

"That's swell, cupcake. Can I have fifty-three dollars?"

"Fifty-three?"

"It's dollar beer night at the Lucky Horsehoe. I told the boys you'd underwrite the cast party. And I'll need a couple extra singles to put into Julio's thong."

Just when I think my love for you could grow no more... by the way, did you ever read "Make Way For Ducklings"? Seriously. Check it out. Even if only to glance at the cover on Amazon... you've got your own harem, Franklin. What I want to know is: did the ball band sing "So Long, Farewell" as they slowly and sleepily ascended the grand staircase? That would've induced my tears, for sure.

Ok, I wanna... something. Something that says, "I love Franklin." None of this heart-stuff. Although if symbology were to be used, then probably the most suitable sentiment would be a-- ball band. Oh, dear. The opportunities for a loss of decorum just truly abound, don't they?

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of filth the balls of sock yarn are picking up, and if they are starting to wear, from rolling around everywhere. I was thinking you may have to wash them before knitting.

But once they started singing, I relized you can never knit them into socks now.

So you ever sleep? Or is your mind always working on such wonderful, sweet, funny stories! All Hail Delores and the Ball Band .... I'm ready for a repeat performance any time. I'm surprised Delores didn't dress as a nun for the show though .... I guess she can only go so far towards reformation?

I thought I was ready for anything you might write - but I was wrong. I am still wiping tears of delight from my eyes at the thought of the ball band renditions of American classics... Would that my sock yarns had a voice coach.

Thank you for resurrecting (or perpetuating) the fine art of wordplay, humor ala Ogden Nash, and the fostering of delicious imagination. No wonder we all believe Dolores is real. She is, isn't she????? And now the Ball Band. Oy vey. Mary B

I was thinking that if the Ball Band sing carols, they'd look good on a winter holidy season card.... Not sure if Cafe Press is the best place to do that sort of thing of if you want to go to a printer and get a bunch done but just saying.

I'm in love with you too. Too bad you live in Chicago and are gay. Never mind. I can live in denial. (Just kidding. I just want to say that your blog makes me laugh out loud, often, something that is extremely rare. Rock on.)

Dolores is a fine example of the cool aunt in the family that has all these marvelous adventures and has no children but reappears to take the nieces and nephews away from the exhausted parents and returns them chattering away about the fabulous time they had at (insert cool location here) and learned a song about shaving cream (be nice and clean...shave every day and you'll always look keen).

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